Neil McMahon - Revolution No.9

“This is Baskett,” a crisp voice said over the phone. “First off, Dr. Monks, are you in danger?”

“Not immediate. At least, I don’t think so.”

“This has something to do with Freeboot?”

“Yes. I have to assume he’s having me watched. I also may be bugged, but I don’t see any way around taking that chance.”

“Do you want police assistance?”

“No cops,” Monks said. “This has to stay invisible.”

“All right. What have you got?”

Monks took a breath. It wasn’t going to sound much better to Baskett than it had to the operator.

“That Calamity Jane murder in Atherton, a few months ago? Where the antique Chinese jewelry was thrown in the Dumpster?”

“Yeah?” Baskett said cautiously.

“I just saw a very expensive-looking jade pendant of that type. Freeboot’s girlfriend, Marguerite, had it. And I’m almost sure I saw one of the maquis give it to her, up at the camp, right about the same time as that murder.”

When Baskett spoke again, his voice was edged with skepticism, maybe even amusement. “Let’s run through all that again. You think Freeboot might be connected with the Calamity Jane killers? He might be watching you? And you’re basing this on seeing a piece of jewelry?”

“I’m basing it on a lot of things,” Monks said heatedly. “And right now there are lives at stake. For Christ’s sake, work with me.”

Baskett’s tone made it clear that he did not appreciate being given orders. “Let’s start with you describing this pendant.”

“Dark green jade, carved into a dragon, very fine workmanship. On a gold chain.”

“Hang on,” Baskett said. Monks heard him repeat the description to someone in the background.

The other man’s reply was muffled, but when Baskett spoke into the phone again, his tone had gone from skeptical back to cautious.

“One of the prize items in that collection fits that description,” he said. “Chinese, Ming dynasty. It’s still missing. But there’s probably a thousand others around that look like it.”

“Out there in the boonies, with a bunch of dopers and runaways? Turning up at exactly that time?”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about it back when we were talking?” Baskett demanded.

“I didn’t get a good look at it the first time. I thought it was just junk. But when I saw it up close, the jade connection clicked. Look, I understand you don’t want a false alarm, but can I tell you why I’m on the run right now, and we’ll worry about the back story later?”

“Go ahead,” Baskett said.

Monks gave a terse explanation. When he finished, he could hear other voices in the background. It sounded like this was attracting attention.

“Give me your vehicle description and location,” Baskett said.

“Blue Ford Bronco, ’74. I’m on the Philo-Greenwood Road, south of Mendocino, a few miles east of Elk. I’ll be turning north to Ukiah at Booneville, then over to I-5 and south to Sacramento.”

“We’ll have a tail pick you up. Don’t worry, they won’t get spotted. Maybe we’ll get a break. But if not-you’re going to have to go through with this, Dr. Monks. Get the little boy and hand him over to Freeboot. That will be our chance to move in.”

Monks had seen this coming, but he still shook his head in denial, an absurd gesture over the telephone.

“We can’t risk getting Mandrake hurt,” he said.

“We can’t not risk it. Think about it. You believe Freeboot, don’t you, that he’ll kill your son?”

Monks hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“So do I. And God knows how many others, if we don’t nail him now.”

Monks stayed silent. There was no way that he could think of to argue.

“Are you familiar with Coulter Hospital?” Baskett asked.

“I’ve been there.”

“Any suggestions on how to proceed? It’s got to look like you’re doing it for real, and trying not to get caught.”

“Can you get undercover people in place?”

“There’s a rapid response team already on the way. Tell us what you want.”

Hospitals differed physically, but the basic operations were similar, and Monks remembered Coulter’s layout reasonably well. He also remembered an incident that he had been involved in a few years earlier, when a prisoner had been smuggled out of a mental hospital in a laundry cart.

“Have Mandrake’s doctors sedate him lightly,” he said. “Something like half a milligram of Ativan, to keep him sleepy for ten or twelve hours. Get your own people on the wards so nobody stops me, and set up a laundry cart down in the service area. I’ll go in as a maintenance man and take him out in that.”

“All right, we’ll get right on it.”

“I might come up with something better. I’ll keep thinking.”

“Did Freeboot say anything about where he wants you to deliver the boy?”

“Nothing. Only that he’d let me know.”

“Okay, Doctor. I’ll check back with you.”

As Monks clicked off the phone, bile rose in his throat at the thought of putting Mandrake in the middle of what could turn out to be a violent confrontation.

He forced himself to concentrate on practicalities. He needed to check in quickly with Sara, to keep her from getting alarmed. She was probably home from work by now. He punched the house’s number.

When she answered, he said, “Honey, I hate like hell to do this to you. Emil just called-you know, the guy who watches my place? There’s a pipe leaking in the kitchen. I have to get back and take care of it before it floods.”

“Do you know where Lia is?” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him. Her voice was fragile with worry. “Her stuff’s all gone.”

Monks bared his teeth in a grimace, hating himself for this deception. But it would be worse to tell her that Marguerite had gone back to Freeboot-and there was the chance that Sara would panic and do something that might compromise this.

“She probably just took off with her pals for a few days,” he said. “Maybe she met a guy. Let’s face it, she’s done it before.”

“She cleaned out everything. Like she’s not coming back.”

“She’ll work it out for herself, Sara. Just like you said.”

“I suppose. It’s just-different now.”

“I know it’s tough.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I know you do. Well, looks like I’m a bachelorette for a while.” Her voice lightened, in a brave attempt to sound coquettish. “Guess I’ll go out trolling the bars.”

He tried to think of some bit of banter to return, but came up empty.

“I won’t be long,” he said. “I’ve got to get off now, I’m getting into some bad curves. I’ll call you soon.”

The part about the curves was true, especially in the fog. He put the phone back on the seat and gripped the wheel at ten and three. The gas gauge read just over half-full, and the Bronco had an auxiliary twenty gallon tank that he kept topped off. That would get him easily to Sacramento, with another few hundred miles to spare. There was the issue of his bladder, but he always carried a couple of plastic containers of water. He could empty one out the window and use it as a trucker’s jug if he had to.

He returned his mind to searching for a way to lure Freeboot into view without exposing Mandrake. That was one thing about spending twenty-five years in the ER-he had learned to clamp down on his emotions and deal with the business at hand.

Mercifully, the fog lifted as he got inland. When it was bad, it could blanket the Central Valley in blindness, causing pileups of dozens, even hundreds, of vehicles on the freeways. Traffic thickened as he approached Sacramento, the drivers fast and aggressive and sure of where they were going, or at least acting like they were. He picked his way through them with tense caution, along with his unseen escorts-probably Freeboot’s men, and definitely FBI agents. It was eerie, sitting alone in the dark, rumbling Bronco, knowing that others were nearby, watching-that he was a minnow, being followed by piranhas, with alligators hunting for them.